The question I want to pursue with this piece is: “How do we relate to the future?”
Because on the deepest level, we do relate to the future in a specific way. We are relational beings; our identity is made up of relations—to other people, to ourselves, to the past, present, and future, and even to objects.
So what kind of relation do we have to the future—or, alternatively: what is the deepest way we can conceptualize and relate to it? The future is not a thing per se, that exists outside of us independently; the future intimately depends on our concepts and notions and stories and perspectives. On our experiences.
Is this relation that we have to the future like that of a child to a vengeful father who judges our sins? Or is it benevolent in nature, like a caring mother?
Are we children of the future—something that will happen anyway, something we must suffer through, in good and bad?
Do we think we are the parents of our future—that through the right methods, operations, and even sacrifices we can bring it into certain being?
Or is there another way of relating to the future?
So let’s dig into it.
The question of the future is one of the most pressing. Not only because the invention of the future lies at the root of consciousness itself—since consciousness is always a consciousness of, and we had to step out of the blissful now of the Garden of Eden by way of the unknown matrix of possibilities approaching us.
It is also important because our culture today is deeply concerned with the future, maybe more so than ever. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t talk about climate, politics, and crisis as much as we do.
One of the most prominent examples of how we put the future into question is the idea of the meta- or polycrisis. These ideas themselves show that we are deeply concerned about our futures. The idea is that we do not only encounter singular crises, as in previous ages, but multiple interconnected ones, where questions of meaning, consciousness, social structures, and physical problems intertwine.
But there are, of course, problems with this idea—three major ones:
1. Observer-dependence.
The whole idea of a multitude of crises is completely observer-dependent. Take away the cognitive observer, and it is hard to know to what extent there is actually a multitude of interconnected crises, how they play into each other, and how they might be root causes for each other. It is a cognitive scheme, a social narration that aims to describe real-life events and phenomena but, due to its abstraction, fails to adequately address the complexities inherent in the future and our relationship to it.
2. The conceptual problem.
A crisis normally refers to a specific moment in time and has a clear beginning and end—like a rite of passage or a social transformation such as the French or American Revolution, the Spanish flu, or COVID. The problem is that something like climate change will accompany us for decades, even in the best-case scenario. Therefore, it does not really constitute a “crisis”; it seems more like a condition.
3. The problem of consensus.
On a broader level—since the concept of “metacrisis” is a cognitive and social construct, nobody can really reach a consensus on what kind of crisis the metacrisis actually consists of. Is climate change really a crisis, or is it more of a condition? Is migration part of the metacrisis, and if so, in what sense? Is it really an identity crisis of the West? On the other hand, humans are nomadic by nature; migration is a necessary part of our existence. And nobody would have an issue with migration if only Swedish bombshells were moving to the UK, the US, or Germany. So perhaps it is more of an ideological or even religious problem. But the tension between, let’s say, Christianity and Islam has existed for centuries, which makes it more of a condition than a crisis.
And what about AI? Is it a crisis or an opportunity, as with all emerging technologies over the past thousand years? With every new technology came challenges, deeply transformative social changes, fears, and hopes.
And finally, how about the so-called “meaning crisis”? Are we really unable to make sense of the world, or are we not actually a sense-making species—which defines us as humans? Even the very concept of the “meaning crisis” relates to the future and creates meaning, and thus renders itself a kind of performative contradiction.
These are only a few of the glaring problems with the concept of a metacrisis. But the main, underlying, deeper issue has not yet been mentioned.
Does not the very idea of a “meaning crisis” rest on the experiential, foundational, and relational assumption that the future exists to punish us for our sins—like a vengeful father judging us for our patriarchal and ecological crimes?
And consequently, doesn’t that imply that we can actually change something and avoid our fate—if only we act prudently enough, humbly enough? Christian enough?
That we can change something is a very Protestant notion, one that carried God himself into modernity. Isn’t this part of the hubris itself? But is that really the right approach to the future—that we might be punished if we don’t act? And that we can and should act?
Well, to answer these questions, let us make a short detour.
German sociologist Niklas Luhmann used the term complexity to denote that not all elements of a system can be reasonably connected with one another. It is complex because it escapes a clear and one-way street of understanding.
For example, climate is complex; the world itself is complex. Consciousness is complex. Social movements, the zeitgeist, are complex. Sure, if you want to travel, say, from Madrid to Barcelona, you hop on a plane and arrive 60 minutes later. You pass through security checks, have an overpriced coffee, and that’s it—nothing complex there. But that wasn’t always the case. Even 150 years ago you had to go by horse or carriage. You were subject to weather conditions, maybe brigands, maybe even extra taxes by local rulers. The horses could injure themselves, or the carriage could break down. You could get sick. A multitude of things could happen and derail your plan. The world seemed more complex, more imponderable back then.
But it is an illusion that the world is more or less complex today. It was complex, it still is, and it will be.
The difference was that people back then had faith—had an idea of God—in order to reduce the complexities of life. (That was the whole idea of the invention of God.) To buy a ship ticket in Ireland or Germany and leave for the Americas, to be one of the first settlers—it couldn’t get more dangerous than that, and it attracted a certain type of person to embark on such an adventure. No wonder America became such a protestant but also enterprising country. It literally selected for these personality types.
Through technology we eschewed these complexities—or at least, we thought we did. Yet the world is still complex. Consciousness is still complex. Social events and movements are still complex. But we don’t rely on the idea of God anymore. Or at least, we think we don’t.
I think He sneaked back in through concepts like the “meaning crisis,” the “polycrisis,” the “metacrisis.” Like a vengeful father returning to punish us for having forsaken Him.
But is the way forward really a way back? Do we need Him? I don’t think so. I think we achieved something, and I think we must be daring enough to see it through. I think that going back to God to reduce the complexities of life is a cop-out.
Let me be poetic here to ease you into the medicine.
I think we should embrace complexity and find a different way of dealing with the future. Instead of relating to her as to a judgmental parent, we could relate to her as to a lover, engaging in a beautiful dance of co-creation. I don’t mean co-creation in the banal social or intersubjective sense, but in a cognitive way: everyone is already intimately relating to their (and our collective) future anyway. And since it is a cognitive framing of the complex, why not approach it as equitable lovers?
It’s not only that we are dependent on the future. The future also needs us. Our future needs us. Our consciousness needs past, present, and future to keep its autopoiesis going.
So what does that mean?
An actual relationship is complex when two people begin to share their interiorities—especially when they start living together. Suddenly we are confronted with the intricacies of the other person’s worldview. But in lovemaking we transform these complexities into singularities. The world becomes one, two become one, become whole, become beautiful again. Lovemaking heals the wounds created by everyday, minuscule problems of the complexities of life. Lovemaking is a dance that embraces the unknown, plays with the unknown.
So perhaps we can begin to make love to the future: to caress her, to nurture her, to be guided and intimately penetrated, transformed.
And yes: only neurotics fear the intimacy of love.
I call this lovemaking with the future itself ultimately will—that is, a more adult, post-egoic notion of will, a field of resonance that we can create with the unknown itself. It is a dance of interdependent guidance between the known and the unknown, between order and chaos, between now and then.
Sure, there are still other forms of will—the pre-egoic ones, the egoic ones—like the modern ones that we still carry around and that were created by the German patriarchs Hegel, Fichte, Schopenhauer. And these notions still work in certain settings and with certain problems.
But additionally, there is a new way of volition, of dealing with the future—and will is always concerned with the future. It is an intimate dance. A feeling. A dance. An intent.
Tom Amarque is writer, philosopher, podcast host, editor & publisher. His recent book is ‘Phenomenology of will’, which will also be subject to a online couse in November 2025. He founded the German publishing house Phaenomen-Verlag in 2009 and Parallax-Media in 2019. Tom currently lives in Palma, Spain. Contact him a tomamarque@yahoo.de